The Ghost of Vegas
by Heath07
Summary: SLASH(f/f) "She wasn't always the fiancee of a mobster...."


Title: The Ghost of Vegas

Rating: PG-13

Summary: Courtney was not always who she now appears to be.

Warning: This is a fic that deals with same sex (female/female) relationships. Do not review just to say it is wrong...blah blah blah. If you don't like it...don't read it. Really, it's that simple.

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She wasn't always the fiancee of a mobster.  
  


The phantom rises in her dreams. Not a real ghost, but a blur of another life...another time. When she was a different person. When she was true to herself.   
  


She had dreams of being some crazy bohemian with no money in her pockets, with no prospects, just a crumbled up map and ambition.   
  


Everything she learned that mattered came from a source long gone; buried. She should honour that memory by being true to herself, but she lives in a place where it's just not possible.   
  


The first time she realized she was different was at a fourth of July picnic when she was fourteen. The only fireworks she saw were between her best friend, Stephanie, and herself as their braces clanged together and sparks flew.   
  


Stephanie had softer lips than anyone she'd ever met. She was some type of modern hippie and wore her hair in braids and sewed peace signs onto her jean jacket. She liked fast cars. She liked fast women even better.   
  


Courtney wasn't ready for what she offered...wouldn't be ready for years. So she suppressed her natural instincts and sunk into conformist thinking.   
  


That way of thinking--hiding really--lasted until she was nineteen. At nineteen, she fell in love for the first time. And it was wild and terrifying and it ended badly, but it was the first time she had a taste of peace...maybe the only taste of peace she'd ever swallowed.  
  


Back in Las Vegas, Courtney was known as Court. She was home there. She was herself there. She was loved there.   
  


There was a gym on her way home from the casino where she worked. She spent nights looking through the giant glass tower as the aerobics instructor taught a class and wondered why her stomach flip-flopped ever time the brunette in the corner turned her way. She looked like the type of girl that neatly crosses her t's and dots her i's with little hearts.   
  


Later, Court found out she was that type of girl; gentle, and sweet. Not exactly the opposite of her, but still, there was a contrast. She was soft and small and needed to be protected. Even her name was soft. Sarah.   
  


Sarah. Sarah. Sarah. She could say it a thousand different times and it would still be soft and pliable on her tongue.   
  


Court never needed protection. She could always take care of herself.  
  


She saved up all the tips she made from drunken partons and pathetic S.O.B.'s that were trying to get into her pants so she could afford a membership to the elite club.  
  


She'd stay late when there was hardly anyone there just to get a glimpse of that brunette and her sleek and toned, tanned body.  
  


Those late nights turned into early mornings and those turned into breakfast and lunch and dinner, until they were sharing the same apartment and swapping clothes and stories of clueless men and old girlfriends who'd never compare to what they shared. They'd laugh and dance and trash romantic comedies together.   
  


There was an old cinema down the block from their apartment, and on Saturday afternoons the double feature was half the price. No one really showed up, mostly tourists trying to escape the heat. Sarah and Court never missed a Saturday and it became sort of a ritual. They'd throw popcorn at the opening credits and steal kisses in between. Star gaze into each others eyes and smile when Bogart would deliver that magical line: 'Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.' Only it wasn't a bar they were remembering and it wasn't Bogart that made them swoon, it was Bergman. It was a high-class gym with sweat pants and dumbbells and two beauties stealing looks between countless reps. And the understanding of unselfish love they knew they had.   
  


Then Sarah got sick and Court held her in her arms while she cried and shook from chills and soaked through thin shirts from night sweats and when she threw-up, she'd pull back her hair and whisper softly against her neck. She never let her do it alone. They went through it together until Sarah didn't want her there anymore.  
  


They would have grown to hate each other if they stayed together and in the end that's what drove them apart. Court would have resented her for being sick and Sarah would have hated the look in Court's eyes...the one she put there. Worried. Scared. Alone. The truth was, near the end, they were both alone and they knew it. They held too much in. There was no room to cry anymore and their tear ducts had long dried up.   
  


Court promised never to love another woman again.   
  


They both knew it could be a lie, but there was something desperate in Sarah's eyes that made Court wanted to make it true. And so it was.  
  


So she moved to Port Charles and left Vegas and the hot sideshow girls and dear sweet Sarah, while she died alone. Left behind the Vegas strip with the crazy swirling lights and loud parties and all it's lustre and shine and became Courtney, never to be Court again. Never to lose herself in another Sarah or Faith or Carly, or even Elizabeth again.  
  


When she worked at the Oasis, she had to make a conscious effort not to look at all the naked, round, perfect breasts of the other girls.   
  


Courtney was a rather weak girl compared to Court. She relied on men and learned how to be dainty as much as she could. To let her emotions out freely and to not think about Sarah.   
  


Thoughts of Sarah were long gone. A spectre of a lifetime past. Or so she told herself. Or so she tried to believe.   
  


There was the rare occasion when she looked over her shoulder and spotted a little brunette and thought for just a second of Sarah. Or sometimes after working a double at Kelly's, Elizabeth would spin around and for an instant her chocolate curls would remind her of the girl she had once loved.  
  


Maybe that's why she goes to the gym so much. Because she's searching. Searing for someone who doesn't exist.  
  


She had dreams once. She wasn't always the fiancee of a mobster. She wasn't always weak.   
  


She wanted to be a crazy bohemian and ride the rails, to stowaway on airplanes headed for exotic places, to write about her trips and lovers and the bright future she had. She wanted to sample freedom.   
  


She wasn't always the fiancee of a mobster.  
  
  
  
  
  


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Credit to:

Rick Blaine (Humphrey Bogart) Casablanca 1942


End file.
